Espresso, As
It starts with one little cup.
It starts with one little cup.
These little cups, their handles barely substantial enough to cradle between two fingers, tend to make themselves known everywhere here in Italy. They snuggle between the shoulders of the morning masses at a bar in Bologna, settle the post-meal stomachs of patrons at a trattoria in Siena, sacrifice their contents to elevate a simple gelato into an affogato at a gelateria in Firenze. They show up in department stores, tabaccherie, pizzerie, farmacie–but you’ll never see an Italian with a cup in hand on the street.
Sometimes it’s porcelain, sometimes it’s glass. There’s always a saucer, always a little spoon. At times it’s a minimalist meditation of white on white, the saucer gliding along the marble counter and stopped in it’s path by a gentle thud of the espresso cup and a clink of the silver spoon. For special occasions, perhaps it’s an ornate blue-and-mother-of-pearl trimmed affair carrying itself like a Byzantine king rests on its Persian rug of a saucer, all purple and gold and kind and royal and stately–and like any good king, an ornate golden scepter of a spoon.
No matter the garb, the contents are always the same. Inside is a 1 euro gift of brown liquid as luscious as a Mast Brothers bar delicately veiled, like a bride, with a golden-brown crema that first blankets the liquid underneath, then your palate, your nose, and finally your whole body . The dark roast is acerbic in its first assertion, but soothing and energizing as you sip it, know it, understand it, and revisit it. Kind of like that opinionated jackass who is now your best friend.
Espresso, as a cup of reliable beauty.
But espresso is more than espresso. It’s more of a key, a means to unlock something else. The man chatting it up with everyone who passes through the bar, shaking hands, petting dogs, yelling Ciao! is not there for his 90 seconds of coffee. Nor are the ladies who arrive in a cloud of tobacco smoke every Sunday to gossip and smoke and, “ma, perché lui farebbe una cosa così?!?” and smoke and gasp and smoke and smoke. Like a hearth, this little cup is a gathering place.
Espresso, as a nexus of friendship.
Also, espresso is sometimes just espresso. It just tastes damn good.
Espresso, as something that just tastes damn good.
There is a kind of zen in drinking a cup of espresso. The ritual becomes routine.“Un caffè, per favore” rolls off your tongue not a millisecond sooner than the barista grinds the beans, tamps the coffee, and pulls the shot in one fluid movement, a rehearsed dance long since made into habit. 21 seconds go by, and you meditate. You meditate on the bitterness, you meditate on the aroma, you meditate on being in that place with those people that you’re with at the time you’re with them. The espresso makes you mindful, of your time, and more importantly, what you’re not doing. Coming from the number #1 stressed university in America, this may be the most important lesson I learn in my time here.
Espresso, as a guide to work-life balance.
I used to order ristretto. A tiny pull of bitter, viscous coffee–more caffeine bang for your buck, I assumed. When I arrived in Italy, bitter espresso was a means to an end. A way to hurry on with my day
Now, when I order my caffé lungo (a longer pull of the good stuff), I drink my espresso. I chat a bit.
More importantly, I don’t do anything else when I’m with my one little cup.
It starts with one little cup. Espresso, as espresso.
Originally published on expressiveespresso.wordpress.com
